


Debbie's Dilemma

by blakunicorn



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, Femslash, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakunicorn/pseuds/blakunicorn
Summary: Debbie's marriage and friendship fall apart. She tries to move on.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Character analysis of Debbie Eagan with a little friendship-building thrown in. As I watched Season 1-3, I was surprised by how often Debbie admitted deeply personal feelings during casual conversations (e.g., her teary monologue with Florian at the cast party, her conversation with Cherry following her unsatisfying dalliance with the wrestler “Steel Horse,” her mini breakdown with the elderly woman during her furniture sale, and her emotional chat with the airline stewardess and “Tex” about motherhood). 
> 
> As a Debbie stan, my heart crumbled a bit when she told Florian she didn’t have anyone to talk to about her heartbreak, and I wondered what would happen if some random character actually engaged Debbie’s hurt and tried to relate to her experiences. Thus, this fic is sort of like random encounter becomes friendship.

Debbie's Dilemma 

A sizeable crowd remained.

It surprised Debbie that a hastily drawn sign, clumsily affixed to the old oak tree outside, had actually attracted so many interested buyers.

** _Furniture sale._ **

Scrawled penmanship partially obscuring the first impromptu sign: **_Bed for Sale_.**

And customers had flocked.

Curious neighbors. Bored housewives with little more to do than gather ‘round secondhand furniture and gossip. Some elderly couple from a town over who’d just happened by and were currently fondling Debbie’s collection of miniature figurines. A towering man with a handlebar mustache who was perusing the living room drapes. Debbie hadn’t decided if she’d sell the window dressings, but she’d part with them if the man made a good enough offer.

The curtains in question—a flower-printed monstrosity—were an eyesore anyway. And thick. They did too good a job of keeping out the sun.

Debbie did an unconscious spin around the room. Her heel, for the first time, not catching against the embroidered rug that once spanned the living room floor.

The rug had been the first thing to go. A slight woman had hauled it off, grinning broadly. So happy to purchase a Mirabelle rug for a measly ten dollars.

_A steal,_ the small woman had enthused at Debbie, the beginnings of a smile on her face, alarming Debbie in its suddenness.

The woman, these buyers (strangers, all of them) were buoyed by furniture and décor that had enervated Debbie over the years.

The rug, she’d spilled wine on, after being written off Paradise Cove. She’d drunk a bottle with Ruth. Then one on her own after Ruth had begged off and staggered outside. 

_Audition tomorrow_, her friend slurred as she’d settled into the back seat of a cab.

Debbie had been well into a third bottle (and not even feeling the effects anymore; just numb) when the wine glass had capsized (or she did) and both she and glass had ended up on the braid wool rug. A fabric palm tree pressed against her cheek, mocking her.

Paradise Cove.

The show would go on without her.

She would have drunk another glass of wine but moving cost energy. So she sobbed instead. Quietly so as not to disturb Mark. And that helped.

And the drapes. Those heavy ones that transfixed the mustachioed man. The ones she’d nearly had to wrestle onto the windows, those had been a gift from Mark’s mother. A wedding present.

Who gifted curtains to newlyweds? What was exciting or inspiring about drapes? About fictile flowers printed against grey polyester voile? It was if the flowers were growing from concrete.

_Ugly_**, **Debbie had thought as she pulled them from the packing paper.

But she’d smiled at Mark’s mother. Accepted the kiss pressed to her cheek. She would hang the curtains in her new house. She would curl her body against her new husband. She would get on with this new life.

Happy Wife. Former Actress. Debbie Eagan née Reynolds.

For four years, she’d been successful in her new role. She’d had a child. Learned to cook.

_A housewife, can you believe it? _she would mutter to Ruth between low-impact aerobic exercises at the mall. Or during one of their poorly-planned Girls Night Outs. Downing stale chips and watered-down alcohol as she gazed blearily into the eyes of her equally sauced best friend.

_From soap star to kitchen soap, _she bemoaned.

_You’re not missing much_, Ruth would assure. And Ruth would regale Debbie with audition stories: Flubbed lines and handsy directors. The casting agent who kept calling her in to read only so that she could remind directors that new faces were actually kind of _blech_.

Ruth would proffer her cheery platitudes then race to another reading or scene study class. Debbie would return home. Prepare a nutritionally sound meal that was only slightly overdone. She’d pair Mark’s suits and ties. She’d coo with Randy. Tidy up. Sit.

But now she paced. As pictures disappeared from her walls. And lamps were carried out. Two college students lugged away the leather couch.

Debbie barely blinked. She haggled over the price of the dining chair. Helped the mustachioed man tug down the curtains (_Ah, sun_).

There were only a few items left in the entire downstairs. She wouldn’t be content until all of the rooms were bare. Emptied.

A woman had been lingering near the mahogany bookcase. It was the last large item remaining. Debbie wanted it gone. She approached the woman. Noticed that she was tapping her fingers in a staccato rhythm against the burnished wood.

“Interested?” Debbie asked her.

The woman startled. Coiled hair springing forward and landing softly against the woman’s tan weather jacket.

“It’s a nice bookcase but big. I’m not sure it’ll fit in my place.”

Debbie glanced over her shoulder. Saw the last few stragglers heading out the front door. No one had purchased the small statue that Debbie had advertised as “two dildoes hugging.” No one but this woman had seemed interested in the bookcase.

Debbie turned her attention back to the indecisive woman. Noticed that she’d begun tapping again. Debbie felt her temple throb; rubbed a finger across it.

“Thirty bucks and it’s yours,” Debbie offered. A more than fair deal.

The woman nodded slowly. Her eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the bookcase.

Was she even listening to Debbie? Or was she simply nodding along to the tune she was drumming?

Debbie pursed her lips. Was drawn by the incessant taps to the woman’s hands.

What sort of woman had clean, perfectly manicured nails yet wore oversized men’s coats?

A frown stole over Debbie’s face. Newly irritable.

“Well?” she asked again.

Randy would wake from his nap soon and would need tending. Perhaps she would lead him in some sort of make-believe game in all this new space they had.

_We’ll build a fort. No husbands allowed. _

“Eh. I don’t think it will fit,” the woman decided.

“You can have it for twenty,” Debbie negotiated. “And I’ll throw in all of the books on the shelf.”

The woman laughed. “There are only two books left.” She squinted at the titles. “Wifey by Judy Blume and Dr. Seuss’ There’s a Wocket in My Pocket_._” The woman reached past the novel to pick up the picture book. “What the hell’s a wocket?”

Debbie wrenched the book away from the woman and held it, almost protectively, against her chest.

“You can’t have this one. It’s my son’s favorite. But Wifey’s all yours.”

Debbie would burn the novel if the woman didn’t take it. A nice little bonfire in her newly emptied house. The symbolism would be satisfying.

The woman picked up the Blume book. Thumbed through it half-interestedly. On the cover, a bare-chested woman removed her wedding ring as she prepared for infidelity. Debbie glared at the image.

She would definitely burn the book. Perhaps even roast a few marshmallows.

“I prefer Blume’s lighter works,” the woman commented idly. “Freckle Juice. Blubber. Super Fudge.”

“What are you? Twelve?”

Debbie meant it as an insult. Probably. But the woman only laughed

“I’m well over twelve,” she replied. But her eyes crinkled when she smiled, belying her words. “I teach middle school English, so I’m pretty well-versed in children’s and young adult literature.” She nodded at Debbie’s chest. “Still don’t know what a wocket is though.”

And she wouldn’t. Not via Randy’s book anyway.

“So, do you want the bookcase or not?” Debbie asked her.

Randy was sure to rise any second. Debbie could feel it. And it would be best to…_burn_ things before he awoke.

“I think I’m going to pass.”

And the woman tucked her hands into her back-jean pockets (_God, she really is twelve, _Debbie thought crossly) before turning towards the front door.

“15 dollars,” Debbie blurted.

The woman turned around. Blinked in surprise. “Is the bookcase haunted or something?”

“_Haunted_? What—?” Debbie was incredulous.

“I mean…You keep lowering the price, and I’m not even haggling.”

“I just want it gone. I want everything gone.”

The woman seemed to realize for the first time that the living room, and what she could see of the dining room and kitchen was barren. Cavernous.

There were square-shaped impressions on the walls were family photos used to hang. The curtain-less windows filtered waning sunlight into the darkening room. Created long, ghostly shadows. The college students had left a long scratch down the living room floor from where they’d drug out the leather coach. A jagged white line pressed so deep into the hardwood that it resembled an arrow leading out of the house.

A blatant exit. Everything.

The proud two-story dwelling now resembled a child’s playhouse. Turned upside down. Emptied out.

The woman looked consternated; tapped restless fingers against her pant leg. Not a rhythm at all but a nervous habit maybe. She walked back to the bookcase. Met Debbie’s eyes. There was even more emptiness in those green orbs. 

“I’ll take it,” she told Debbie. “Thirty bucks right?”

“Fifteen.”

The woman removed a faded billfold from her right pants pocket. And Debbie nearly rolled her eyes. This woman with her wallet and her tan weather jacket was nearly as ridiculous as Ruth was with her change purse and her plaid button-down shirts.

_Fucking Ruth, _Debbie groused internally.

And the words ricocheted inside her head. Took on different meaning.

_Mark fucking Ruth. _

Would burning _one_ book be enough? Debbie bit into her bottom lip. She should have kept the drapes. Burned those fibrous flowers.

_Fucking Ruth. At least twice, he did. Fucking. Fuck. Fuck!_

The woman remained oblivious to Debbie’s inner diatribe. She counted out thirty dollars. Folded the money into the children’s book still clenched in Debbie’s hands.

A tiny bookmark.

“I said fifteen,” Debbie protested. And she tried to push the money back into the woman’s hands.

The woman backed away, hands up for a moment, fingers still moving, friendly-like, before placing those restless hands against the bookcase’s corners. Moving. Rotating.

“Thirty’s a great deal,” the woman said conversationally. Already gasping with effort. “Plus, I’m keeping Wifey. I haven’t read that one.”

Debbie almost protested but swallowed it down. So long as the damnable book was out of the house.

“But Professor, I thought you preferred Blume’s lighter works,” Debbie rejoined sarcastically. And she eyed the woman’s movements. Noticed that the bookcase had moved barely an inch despite the woman’s strenuous activity.

“I’m not a professor,” the woman grunted. “I just teach eighth-grade English. And the occasional science class. I do like Blume’s fluffier stuff. For teaching material. But for private reading…” Her eyes lit on the book jacket of Wifey and Debbie finally gave in and rolled her eyes. Fuck being polite.

“Don’t let the cover fool you,” she told the woman. “If you’re expecting a romance novel, you’ll be disappointed.”

“No spoilers, please.”

The woman hip bumped the bookcase, but the behemoth furniture still didn’t budge. Debbie sighed before returning the Dr. Seuss book to the shelf.

“Move over.”

The woman made room for Debbie at the rear of the bookshelf and they both pushed.

A few inches. That’s all they managed.

“I think the Dr. Seuss book made it heavier,” the woman complained.

“Shush.”

Debbie shoved her shoulder into the bookcase. Heard a grinding noise from the floorboard.

“You’re going to scratch your floor,” the woman pointed out.

“Good. It’ll piss of my husband.”

Debbie blanched at her own words. She stopped pushing the bookcase and swiped a hand across her brow, arresting sweat before it could start.

“Ex-husband,” she amended. “Future ex-husband.”

The woman nodded sympathetically. “Is that why you hosted this clearance sale? For some literal and figurative payback?”

Debbie firmed her jaw. Firmed her back next. Then pushed with all her might. “I don’t think talking is going to help us get this thing out of here,” she huffed.

“I don’t think pushing is going to help us either.”

The woman frowned at the bookcase. A speculative looking crossing her face as if she could divine a way to move the bookcase if she stared hard enough.

Debbie took the opportunity to survey her companion. The woman was sweating already. The perspiration making the tiny hairs around her temple round into delicate curlicues. She looked even younger with her face scrunched in concentration. And she was actually quite pretty even when swallowed by that hideous weather jacket.

Young and pretty. The combination angered Debbie. She suddenly wanted the woman out of her house.

“Do you have a dolly in your pickup truck?” she asked the woman.

One eyebrow rose on the perspiring face. “I walked over. I only live a couple of houses down.” That scrunched face again. “Why would you think I had a pickup truck?”

Debbie’s eyes moved from the tan weather jacket, to the visible bulge of the tattered wallet pressed into worn Levi’s, down to the…_My goodness..._clunky hiking boots that were currently scuffing her hardwood floor.

_At least the scuff marks will piss off Mark. _

Debbie’s eyes traveled back up. This woman was a walking stereotype. Could probably compete as a character on Bash’s campy pet project, GLOW.

Sam would name her _Tiana the Trucker_ or _Bettina the Biker Babe_. Some nonsense like that.

“You look like the Marlboro man,” Debbie stated flatly. ‘Cause clearly her tactfulness expired after sundown. 

The woman blinked back at her. “Which one? 80s version or circa 1960? I’ll be offended if you say 80s.”

Debbie released a short breath. An aborted laugh.

She was supposed to be angry. Or subdued from this estate sale catharsis. But laughing was simply out of the question. She wouldn’t laugh until the divorce papers were signed. Until Ruth came groveling on her knees, begging for Debbie’s forgiveness. She wouldn’t release this anger, this feeling of betrayal, until _everyone—_Mark, Ruth, the producers who’d decided she’d aged out of her role, the writers who thought dramatic monologues were best suited for men—until all of them had acknowledged that they’d wronged her. Grievously. Until all of them had _atoned_.

But this woman’s incessant chatter was threatening Debbie’s resolve.

“I’m pretty sure Marlboro men drove horses not pickup trucks,” the woman was saying.

“You don’t _drive_ a horse, you ride it.” Debbie frowned at her. “You’re an English teacher. You should know better.”

“You’re right. I’m an English teacher. Not a cigarette-twirling cowboy. And I have neither horse nor pickup truck, so I’m not sure how we’re going to move this thing.”

And she used the toe of her boot to push at the bookcase one final time before swinging her gaze back to Debbie.

“Can I get a refund?”

And Debbie couldn’t help it. She snorted. An indelicate laugh that bubbled free. The likes of which she hadn’t released in so long that her chest burned from the action. She pressed the pad of a finger beneath her eyelids, patting drying her mascara.

“Here.” Debbie pressed the folded bills into the woman’s hands. “I’ll keep the damn thing. But I’m burning this book.”

And she snatched Wifey from the bookshelf and turned towards her kitchen.

Matches. She needed matches. Had she _sold_ her matches? She couldn’t remember.

“Woah!” the woman jammed the cash into her pocket before darting in front of Debbie. “What are you, some type of religious zealot? It’s a romance novel not porn. You don’t have to burn it. Besides, I told you I want to read it.”

Debbie frowned down at the book. “It’s not Judy Blume’s best work.”

“And you perform your book reviews using fire?”

Debbie’s eyes narrowed. Her anger was returning. Good.

“Here’s a synopsis for you then. Unsatisfied with her marriage, a bored housewife decides to _fuck_ her way to happiness. Cabana boys. Plumbers. Even her sister’s husband isn’t off-limits for our narcissistic protagonist.”

The anger evaporates that quickly. Debbie swallowed. Tasted bitterness. 

_Fucking Ruth_. 

And she was appalled to find that there were tears in her eyes. She’d lose her mascara after all.

She’d held it together as strangers carted off picture frames and potted flowers, the love seat that she’d purchased on their first anniversary just because the name was so quaint (_love_ seat); the rug that she’d spilled wine onto and cried into when she’d been cut from Paradise Cove; but also that same rug into which Mark had pressed her when she’d first gotten the role. They’d fucked right there on the floor, giddy at her success.

_Back before Mark thought my ambitions were silly. _

She hadn’t cried when those memories were sold for five, ten, fifteen dollars.

But this embarrassment of a novel. An illustrated wedding ring. A fictional philanderer. She felt a breakdown coming.

She extended the book towards the woman, her voice shaking: “You’re sure you want to read it?”

The woman shook her head. Stunned into silence by the devastation on Debbie’s face.

“I’ll get on with it then,” Debbie stated.

But the woman stopped her again. “Here.”

She removed a lighter from her boot. Lit it for Debbie. A helpful flame.

Debbie was taken aback. “The fucking Marlboro man indeed.”

The woman nodded. Agreeable. “I don’t own a pickup truck, but I have a van. And I suppose that’s pick-up truck _like_.”

Debbie snorted again. The conflicting emotions were dizzying. She was furious. She was tired. She should probably sleep for a while. _Randy will be up soon._

But she no longer had a bed. No longer had a husband. No longer had a best friend or career…

_Wrestling’s a career_, a voice interrupted, loud and insistent.

_More like a circus act_, she rebutted.

_And Cherry’s a friend_. _Or becoming one._

_She pities me. And there’s a twinge of judgement whenever she looks at me. _

_You can buy a new bed. A queen-sized one. Or full. You can fill this entire house with new memories. _

_Memories aren’t like furniture though. They aren’t dust particles or scratches against hardwood. They can’t be swept or buffed out. _

Ruth smiling across the table at her. Her expressive eyes and whip-fast jokes.

Mark breathing against her. Large and solid and close.

The memories get tangled.

Ruth’s breathing. Mark’s eyes. Whose bed now? Close.

Debbie waved away the woman’s lighter.

“I’m going to drink a glass of wine. Just one because my son’s upstairs.”

The woman nodded. Turned off the flame. Closed her fist around the lighter. Debbie noticed that there were freckles on the woman’s hand. Tiny and numerous like a constellation. There was a fire in the woman’s palm. But the fire could wait.

“I’m going to drink a glass of wine,” Debbie repeated. “Then I’m going to read this book.”

She flipped Wifey onto the bookshelf and reclaimed There’s a Wocket in My Pocket. Debbie held the children’s book against her chest like a shield.

“Are you old enough to drink?” she asked the woman.

“I’m twenty-eight,” the woman replied.

“You’re a young-looking twenty-eight. And very pretty.”

For some reason, the combination doesn’t bother her as much anymore.

The woman flushed. A stark red suffusing honey-brown skin. “You’ve called me a variety of things in a span of five minutes.”

“Well, pick your favorite and I’ll refer to you as such while we drink this wine.”

And Debbie moved towards the kitchen. She hoped to god she hadn’t sold her stemware.

“Tiana,” the woman directed at Debbie’s back. “You can simply call me by my name.”

Debbie turned around. “That’s really your name?” _Tiana the Trucker._

“I know it’s not as illustrious as _Marlboro_.”

Debbie laughed. Resumed her ingress into the kitchen. “Okay Tiana. See if you can push that bookcase back against the wall while I get the drinks.”

“Seriously?”

Debbie heard a muffled curse then a thud and more scratching sounds. Parallel lines probably being etched into her floor.

Mark would be incensed. His anger would suffice. No fire tonight. Just wine.

She poured a glass. Then another. Balanced both in one hand before reentering the living room still holding Randy’s book.

“You still want to know what a wocket is?” she asked the woman.

_Tiana, _her mind supplied.

Tiana nodded and accepted the glass of wine handed to her. She sipped slowly. Young in her actions. Curls at her temples.

_How can she possibly be a teacher?_ Debbie wondered. _Or even twenty-eight?_

But she could benefit from the company of this fashion-adverse, Judy Blume-worshiping woman. It would stave off her loneliness for at least a few more minutes. Would keep the images at bay of Mark touching Ruth; of Ruth acquiescing, limp and supine like those moments Liberty Belle bested Zoya.

_She was my best friend_, she thought. _And her unfaithfulness hurts more than his. _

The young woman, Tiana, had slumped into a loose-legged sprawl on the floor. Her shoestrings had come untied and her wine glass was nearly empty already. She stared out of the large bay windows into the darkness. The twin **_For Sale_** signs flapped against the old oak tree.

“You should cover these windows,” Tiana volunteered. “Maybe get some of those venetian blinds they sell at K-Mart.”

Debbie settled into the space beside her. “God, you’re an exciting 28-year old.”

She downed a mouthful of wine. Only one glass tonight. But when her mom babysat Randy again…

“So, you going to read this book to me?” Tiana asked. And she actually tilted her head towards the book as if Debbie were a narrator.

“You’re the English teacher.” Debbie passed the book over. “You read it to me. I’ll enjoy the change in roles.”

Tiana opened to page one. Smirked down at the cartooned images. “How ‘bout we alternate?”

Debbie took another pull from her glass. Surveyed the woman’s profile through the faux crystal. Thought of Wifey. The despairing lead character who chased happiness in trysts with strangers.

Quick fucks. Just—_Touch me here_. And _Harder_. And _Please leave_. Or even more desperate--_Please _**don’t**_ leave._

Could Debbie do that?

Would it hurt Mark? Would it help Debbie? Would it temper this burning thing, the real fire, that threatened to claw from her throat?

“It’s your turn,” Tiana murmured.

Was that an invitation? Debbie’s turn to fool around, to flail, to fuck up a family?

Tiana’s eyes were so brown. And there were more freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose.

“It’s your turn,” Tiana said again. And Debbie leaned forward. “Page two. And I’m not going to lie. These wocket thingies are kind of creepy.”

Debbie pulled back. Smiled. A pained crevasse in the middle of her face.

There was pain building behind her eyelids. Behind her ribcage. Mounting. And it would spill over soon. Her mascara be damned.

She read page two.

And later…

After Randy had awakened and been fed. After he’d been diapered and had scooted across the expanse of floor. After he’d tired himself out and gone back to sleep. Tucked comfortably into the only room in the house that still had furniture…

Debbie came back downstairs where Tiana had finished half of Wifey.

Tiana looked up, a small scowl lining her face. “You’re right. It’s not Blume’s best work.”

“Told you.”

“Yet, I’m loathe to put it down.”

Debbie smirked. “You’ve reached a sex scene, haven’t you?”

Tiana chuckled. Turned the page.

Debbie disappeared into the kitchen. Returned with a pitcher of water. “I was going to make tea, but I seem to have sold all of my appliances.”

She gestured with the pitcher and filled Tiana’s empty glass when the younger woman nodded.

They drank at the same time. Tiana’s eyes glued to the page. Debbie’s moving from window, to corridor, from room to room, cataloguing the numerous spaces she needed to fill.

“Why are you still here?” Debbie asked suddenly.

Tiana had read Dr. Seuss with Debbie. Had read it twice more to Randy. Had let the little boy crawl over her, tug on her clothes. Had played peek-a-boo and some silly game with rhyming words that had sent Randy giggling.

Debbie had decided that the young woman was indeed a school teacher. She had an effortless rapport with children.

Debbie liked her. Had to take a quick sip from her glass when she came to that realization. 

“You’ve been here for three hours,” Debbie told her.

“I’m pretending you’re a library.” And Tiana continued to read. “This woman’s stamina is incredible,” she murmured.

Debbie nearly choked on her water. “You’re ridiculous. And I don’t care what you say. It’s porn.”

“Porn with Oxford commas.”

Debbie chortled. She was feeling warm. Even while drinking cold water. Even in a curtainless house with no furnishings to ebb the draft.

She hummed into her glass. Chasing the last drop. She needed something else. Something more substantial than cool water, than serendipitous companionship.

She needed to feel something. Something real. Something cloying and deep. 

Tiana felt eyes on her. She put the book down. Stared back at Debbie.

This was it.

There was no longer a carpet against the floor, but this space was still suitable for sex. For mindless fucking. A new experience might supplant the old. Debbie doubted it, but she would try. Steel Horse (_What the fuck was his real name?_) had fucked her for hours in his dressing room and she’d felt nothing but sore afterwards.

_It’s better when it’s with someone you know_, she’d told Cherry. But she would try again. The repetition would help.

It didn’t matter that it was a woman. That it would be against the floor. It didn’t matter that the heartbreak would override the pleasure.

_Fuck me until I can feel something else. Until I forget. _

Debbie leaned forward again. She expected Tiana to kiss her. Welcomed it even.

But the woman touched her hand instead.

“You can talk about it,” Tiana told Debbie. Sincere and absent any expectations like conversations tend to be between strangers.

Debbie shivered at the featherlight touch.

These past few weeks, she’d been thrown onto the canvas. Had catapulted against lean bodies; had strained against muscular ones. Had slapped Ruth. Had been elbowed back. Had endured a therapeutic hug from Mark.

Those touches had hardened her. She’d numbed herself to counterpunches and physician-prescribed affections.

But this brush of fingers from a weather jacket-wearing stranger…

Somewhere a dam broke. The stoicism, the steeliness, Sam’s impassioned pronouncement that Debbie was strong, was a “goddess of rage.” It all faded away, leaving behind a whisper-soft truth:

"I’m not okay,” Debbie admitted. And she was ashamed that the words left her like a whimper. Stuttering and imprecise. As far removed from a professional performance as possible. “I feel like I'm losing my mind every twenty minutes. Twenty minutes is about as long as I can possibly pretend that everything is okay. And I don't have anybody to talk to about it." 

The hand-touch transitioned into a handhold. “Yeah, you do,” Tiana told her.

And Debbie sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I intend no Judy Blume slander. She's great. I read Wifey ages ago, so pardon me if I’ve lost the major plot points of that novel.  
*Final lines that Debbie says are from actual episode.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

She had a bed now.

A mattress really. Half the size of her old one and absent a fancy headboard and fancier husband, but it was all hers. And her first night of sleeping in it, curled on her side in a satin nightgown, had been the best night of sleep in her life.

Debbie stretched. Yawned. Rubbed a hand across her face.

Today was a new day. She’d go to work. Collect Randy from her mother. And, if she had the energy, she would buy a few more pieces of furniture to fill up the empty corners and barren walls in her two-person home.

She was officially moving on.

A full month without Mark.

Joint custody of Randy meant that they still saw each other regularly. But Mark attempted no more therapeutic hugs and Debbie refused to smile or say more than “See you on Wednesday.”

Her interactions with Ruth were even more curt. “Follow.” “Catch.” And “Are you okay?” those times she landed too hard against Ruth’s stomach.

A handful of words to two of the people she once loved most in the world.

_I talk more to Randy these days_, she thought as she brushed her teeth, washed her face, stared into the mirror at worry lines and fly-away hair.

She had work in an hour.

Coffee then shower. Then a pep-talk in the car before she squared off with Ruth. Grappling today. Long moments of staring each other in the eyes while hands slipped and held, breathing became choppy, faces contorted.

The real fighting (slapping Ruth, being elbowed back) never felt as satisfying as the fake.

_Because you don’t really want to hurt her_, a traitorous voice sounded.

Too bad Ruth didn’t feel the same way.

Debbie ran a thumb across her bottom lip. Felt cracked skin. God, she hadn’t even been taking care of herself lately. Looked older than thirty-one. Felt nothing like the spry debutante she portrayed when she was Liberty Belle.

Coffee. She needed coffee.

She made her way downstairs.

She had curtains now. Nothing floral or even pretty but they were light and easy to pull back from the windows. Debbie opened them. Let sunlight in.

The living room held a side table now; a circular rug and that immovable bookcase.

_I’m making progress. _

And there was a brand-new coffeemaker. She put a pot on. Began mentally charting the moves that she would practice today. A third-rope lateral jump. An arm-twist. Double clothesline.

She released a soft chuckle as the coffee percolated. Those were terms she’d never expected to know let alone perfect.

She was a long way from Paradise Cove. From family meals. From Mark standing in front of her and Ruth behind as a minister intoned: “Debra Lee Reynolds, do you take this man to be your husband?”

Before the memory could brew along with the coffee, there was a knock at the door. Successive taps like an awkward drum beat.

Debbie gathered her nightgown around her and moved towards the door. Opened it.

It was the woman from several nights ago. Tiana something. Outfitted in jeans and a loose button-down shirt wearing those god-awful hiking boots. But no weather-jacket today.

Debbie pursed her lips.

“Hi,” Tiana said. Cheerfully. Waving the fingers of her right hand in a clumsy salute.

“Hello,” Debbie said slowly.

Debbie had cried in front of this woman. For a long time, if she remembered correctly. And while she appreciated Tiana’s solicitude days before, Debbie couldn’t help but feel embarrassed in this moment. Mascara-less, clad in a rumbled nightgown with the memories of her emotional breakdown between them.

Debbie cleared her throat. “Did you forget something the last time you were here?”

Tiana looked taken aback. Put her hand down. “No. I just…” And when Debbie only stared blankly, “I remember you said you were keeping the bookcase, and I thought it would be a waste to have so many shelves and only two books, so…”

And Debbie realized that in her inspection of Tiana’s wardrobe she’d overlooked the bundle of books the woman was cradling in her left arm.

Tiana handed the books over. “Just a few novels I had at home that I thought you might enjoy.”

Tiana smiled. And she looked so young with her wide eyes and springy hair (plaited today) and collection of secondhand books that Debbie couldn’t help rolling her eyes. Affectionately though.

Debbie sorted through the stack of worn texts. There were some familiar titles but others she’d never heard of. She sucked her teeth at one novel in particular and handed it back to Tiana.

“I thought we established that I have no interest in romance novels.”

“Beloved’s not a romance novel. Far from it actually.” She pointed at another book. “And even though the cover of that one has a disrobed woman in a kneeling position, it’s not a romance novel either. It’s a collection of essays by some really _badass_ women. Some of who’ve had similar experiences to yourse--”

She trailed off. Seemed to realize that she was rambling.

Debbie bought the books to her chest and offered a small smile. “Thank you. Since I’m pretty much starting over with this house, these books are actually something like a housewarming gift, so I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

It was all very neighborly, this conversation. Polite and to the point and nothing like the teary confessions Debbie made on the floor of her living room several days ago.

Tiana smiled back, careful and incomplete, before starting a rocking motion with the balls of her feet. A prelude to her exit.

“Well,” she told Debbie. “Catch you later.”

That finger wave again as she spun around.

“Would you like coffee?” Debbie blurted. The words out before she could reconsider. “I just put a pot on.”

And Debbie looked past Tiana’s shoulder. At the sprinklers puddling her neighbor’s yard. She expected rejection. Prepared for it.

“I’d love coffee” Tiana replied.

And she trailed Debbie into the house. Closed the front door behind them.

. . .

Debbie leaned against the counter. Sipped her coffee slowly. She liked it scalding. Enjoyed the steam and the slow burn.

Tiana paced opposite her and alternated between blowing and deep gulps. She’d added so much cream and sugar to her drink that Debbie suspected the young women would soon require dental services.

“You ever planning to get chairs?” Tiana asked suddenly. “Or a table?”

She gestured at the empty space.

Debbie had always valued her sizeable kitchen. It was an open floor plan that boasted high ceilings and marble countertops. She’d hosted her fair share of celebratory dinner parties in this room. But the kitchen was barren now. Empty of all but the refrigerator, Randy’s high chair, random dishware, and the new coffeemaker.

Debbie liked it this way. It felt like her first apartment. Bare but all hers.

“I’ll get around to it eventually,” she told Tiana.

Tiana placed her empty cup on the counter. “How have you been preparing and eating meals?”

Debbie shrugged. “When I _remember_ to eat, it’s mostly takeout. I just eat out of the carton.”

Tiana eyed her worriedly and Debbie flushed with embarrassment. God, she hated those kinds of looks. From Cherry. From her mother. Even Ruth would fix her with these pitying stares from time-to-time.

“Takeout is convenient,” she said defensively. “Plus, I’m so busy with wrestling practice and filming and taking care of Randy that I don’t have time to meal prep.”

“Wrestling practice? You’re a wrestling coach?”

It irritated Debbie that Tiana sounded so skeptical.

“I’m a _wrestler_.” Debbie drew to her full height. “Is that so hard to believe?”

And, yes, she was standing barefoot in her kitchen in a satin gown. Yes, she’d spilled her guts to Tiana the last time she saw her and probably looked a tear-stained mess the entire while. Yes, she’d been fired, fucked over, and cheated on, but Debbie was damn tired of always being underestimated and disregarded.

Tiana grinned back at her. “Hell no, that’s not hard to believe. I saw you bearhug a bookcase. And you intimidated that one guy who tried to offer you two bucks for your wicker cabinet.” Tiana nodded appreciatively. “I can totally see it.”

Debbie flushed. For a different reason this time. And she drew her robe more tightly around herself as she finished the rest of her coffee.

“Well, speaking of wrestling, I actually have to be leaving soon,” she told Tiana. “I have practice in less than an hour and have to get dressed and drive over, so…”

“Of course. Don’t let me keep you. Should I…?” And Tiana gestured at her empty coffee cup.

“God no. I’ll wash up later. You’ve done more than enough with the books and your visit. And the other day...”

Debbie couldn’t meet the woman’s eyes.

“It’s no problem, really.” Silence floated between them. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Thanks for the books.” 

Another protracted silence.

And for someone who needed to get a move on, Debbie wasted more time standing there. Holding an empty coffee mug. Enjoying the feel of warm tile against her feet. The feel of Tiana’s eyes, curious and kind.

“Shouldn’t you be at work, Professor?” Debbie finally asked. 

Tiana smiled. “It’s summer, so…” Debbie nodded. Right. “I have the occasional training or stuffy meeting to attend, but I’ve spent most of this summer getting settled into my new place and patronizing garage sales.”

Debbie laughed. Placed her coffee cup beside Tiana’s. “You said you live a few houses down?”

“Yep. 2509. The small brick house on the corner? The one with the tree swing.”

Debbie knew the one. “By swing you mean the tire affixed to the nylon rope?”

“It’s old-fashioned.”

Debbie laughed again. “Mrs. McLendon is going to have a field day with you. She reported me to the Neighborhood Association after I left my Christmas lights up an extra week.”

“I’d actually welcome her visit. I don’t know anyone in the area and people haven’t been very chatty.”

Debbie eyed the young woman. Could only imagine the assumptions made about her due to her clothing, age, skin color, hair. Debbie had pre-judged her herself. _The Marlboro Man._

She shifted guiltily. “Well, you know me,” she told Tiana.

Tiana’s resulting smile was broad. Reached all the way to her eyes. “Yeah. Resident super mom and bona fide wrestler.” Debbie rolled her eyes. “Can I count on you for backup if Mrs. McLendon gives me trouble about the tire swing?”

“_Ha_. I don’t even think Carmen can take Mrs. McLendon.” At Tiana’s confused look: “She’s one of the women I wrestle with. Very skilled. Wrestling royalty.” 

Tiana nodded. Debbie placed the two cups into the kitchen sink.

“God, I don’t even have dish soap,” she realized. She couldn’t help but laugh at her own disorderliness, and she turned a muted smile on Tiana. “Do I look as out-of-sorts as I feel?”

Tiana’s eyes took in the mussed hair, the rumpled robe, the bare feet. “You look…” The young woman’s mouth opened and closed. Considering. “You look _real_,” she finally said. “Like you’re being you.”

Debbie’s hand clenched involuntarily. She felt an emptiness where her wedding ring used to be. A vacancy. For so long, she’d associated that ring with her identity. But now she was wondering if it was only part of a costume. Another role she played to please an audience. Recite these lines. Exhibit these emotions. Don’t forget to project.

She’d been so many characters during the span of her life: Laura Morgan. Mark’s wife. Liberty Belle.

Had she ever been real? Had she ever been Debbie? Just her_self_? Not in relation to anyone else?

Her tongue found the cracked line on her bottom lip. Another imperfection that she would catalogue and try to correct for appearances sake.

“You think I look real?” she asked Tiana. Suddenly breathless.

“Quite.”

“Hmmm.” A thoughtful look stole over Debbie’s face. “You have any plans for the day?”

“Just unpacking boxes. Might hit up a record store.”

“Before you go crazy with Duran Duran or whoever the hell else you listen to, there’s a noise ordinance for this block.”

“Mrs. Mclendon?”

“Right.”

“First off, I don’t listen to Duran Duran.”

“Hall and Oates?”

“_Hey now,_ Abandoned Luncheonette is criminally underrated.” Debbie snorted. “I’m more of a soul sister anyway. The Whispers. Shalamar. Sheila Easton.”

“I don’t need a discography.”

“Everybody likes Prince, right? _Little red corvette_…”

“Don’t sing.” Debbie swept past Tiana and headed for the foyer. “If you want to do something a little more exciting than unpack boxes and perform karaoke, you can accompany me to wrestling practice today. Meet my co-workers. The Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling.”

“The Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling…?” Tiana looked stunned. “Wow. Yeah. That sounds fun. Thanks.”

Debbie halted her ascent up the stairs. Tightened her hands around the banister as she held Tiana’s gaze.

“It’s the least I could do. Currently, I don’t have any friends…” It was a painful admission and Debbie nearly choked on the words. “But you were a friend to me the other night. My kid used you as a jungle gym. Then I cried all over your jacket…” Her nose wrinkled. “It’s a very ugly jacket by the way.”

“I’ll have you know that Burt Reynolds wore that same jacket in Cannonball Run.”

“He also wore a mustache.”

“Just for that, I’m wearing the jacket to your wrestling practice.”

“Well, all the wrestlers are forced to wear adult onesies, so you’ll actually be the best dressed.” Debbie continued up the stairs. “I’ll be down in twenty.” 

“I’ll be waiting.”

. . .

When Debbie stretched and pressed ten fingers to her toes, she felt a muscle unfurl in her back. Relief.

From this angle, she could also see a row of elastic-clad asses.

_If I’m not staring at asses, I’m staring at groins_, she thought. _Such is the life of a wrestler_.

Cherry led them into another pose, toes pointed, and Debbie could feel the calf strain. Another pleasant burn.

Melrose popped gum as she half-assed the calisthenics.

“I didn’t know we could bring fans to our workouts,” she directed at Cherry.

The GLOW trainer folded arms across her chest as she glared down at Melrose’s poor attempt at a squat.

“Get lower Melrose. And lose the gum.”

Melrose blew an obnoxious bubble before whipping her pony-tailed head towards the lone spectator in the gym bleachers.

“I know Debbie’s considered the star of this low-budget production…” Melrose received twin glares from Debbie and Cherry, “But why is she the only one who gets to bring her entourage to practice? Do you know how many male groupies I have who would love to see me sweat in a leotard?”

Cherry rolled her eyes. “Melrose, you haven’t broken a sweat at a single practice.”

“Because I’m not properly motivated,” Melrose whined. “But with a man in the audience—”

“Sam’s a man,” Rhonda interjected.

“With a handsome man in the audience,” Melrose clarified, “I’d push it to the max.” And she did a bouncy handspring as if to prove her point.

Cherry seemed far from impressed. “No men. No entourages.”

“But Debbie—”

“Tiana’s not a fan,” Debbie quickly explained. “She’s a neighbor, and she was interested in the show.”

Melrose popped her gum again. “The shampoo girl at Super Cuts is interested in the show too. Should I invite her to Thursday’s practice?”

Cherry jerked a thumb toward the ring. “Melrose, since you’re feeling so peppy, why don’t you and Jenny get started with grappling? Carmen—you lead them through it.”

Melrose sucked her teeth but sauntered off with her assigned team. The other wrestlers broke into pairs to begin training for Thursday’s taping.

Ruth caught Debbie’s eye—a quick communication—before heading for the pull-up bar. She’d wait for Debbie to initiate their sparring session. That was their dynamic now. Debbie led and Ruth followed. Contrition through submission. Or, in the words of Sheila, slouch and submit.

Debbie watched Ruth pull herself up by the dangling rings. Up and down, steady and sure. Her friend had gotten stronger these past few weeks. There was a time not too long ago when Ruth would claim exhaustion after a bout of a thumb-wrestling. She’d go five minutes in their weekly aerobic class before quitting and staggering towards the nearest Orange Julius stand. The hapless woman had even been accosted by rabble of adolescents and robbed of her tacos.

But she was lean and fit now and arguably the best wrestler outside of Carmen. Debbie was privately proud of her.

_I hate her_, she thought, as Ruth started another set of pull-ups. _I hate her so much that it hurts. _But Debbie doubted that hate could lodge that deeply. Could set up residence in her heart and mind and fists and eyes.

Why couldn’t she stop staring at Ruth?

“Sometimes I think you should have been Zoya.” Cherry moved into Debbie’s line of sight. Interrupted the intense stare-athon. “You’ve had that focused ‘I’m gonna git you sucka’ vibe from the very beginning.”

Debbie exhaled and tried to soften her features. “It’s warranted don’t you think?”

“Most definitely. If a girlfriend of mine did to me what Ruth did to you, they’d still be looking for the body.”

Cherry gave Debbie her trademark smirk.

“I thought about that. But then Mark would get full custody of Randy, so…”

They shared a laugh and Cherry angled her body closer. Lowered her voice even though the gym had filled with the sound of grunts and slaps, tennis shoes meeting canvas.

“It can’t be easy, seeing her every day. Working so closely together.” Debbie nodded. Worked her jaw in circles so that she wouldn’t lose herself and start crying or bellowing or shouting curses at the ceiling. “Melrose thinks you get special privileges ‘cause you’re Sam’s designated star, but I know better. It’s a shit detail to have your best friend double-cross you and be an actual heel.”

Without looking closely, one would think the moisture staining Debbie’s face was sweat. Debbie relied on that misinterpretation as she wiped tears from her face, hiccupped a few times, and tried to regain her composure.

“I just want it to stop…_hurting_,” she confessed to Cherry. And she accepted the hand that Cherry placed against her shoulder. Cherry who was seldomly physically demonstrative but who shared a cigarette with Debbie after her unsatisfying encounter with Steel Horse. Who gave Debbie a hip bump or secret wink whenever she pulled off a successful move. _Good job girl. _

“It’ll stop hurting.” Cherry promised. “And not because the pain will weaken but because you’ll get stronger.”

Debbie nodded.

Ruth was stronger. Debbie was stronger. They’d developed that strength by contesting the other. By being adversaries rather than friends.

“So what’s the story with the girl in the stands?” Cherry asked.

“Like I said, she’s a neighbor.”

“Uh huh. Well, despite what I told Melrose, we don’t have an open-door policy for practices. Today it’s your neighbor. Tomorrow it’s the Super Cuts shampoo girl. If anyone wants to see GLOW, invite them to the taping. That’s when we need asses in the seats.”

“It won’t happen again.” Debbie pulled her hair into a quick bun. Stole a glance at Tiana who had been sitting quietly during the warm-ups and was now staring fixedly at Carmen demonstrating an armbar. “She was at my place this morning and we were having coffee, and she’s…I don’t know…sweet. Dorky but sweet. And I barely know her, but I also got weepy the other night and, like, confessed every secret I’ve ever had since the sixth grade, and it’s _weird_ but also _not_ weird. And she has no fashion sense but great hair and nails, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to read this ginormous stack of books she bought me otherwise it’ll hurt her feelings. On top of that, she’s an English teacher, so she’ll know if I only skim the books and—”

“_Debbie_.” Cherry put a hand up. Interrupting the ramble. Debbie blinked. “You didn’t talk this much after you rode Steel Horse,” Cherry joked.

“God, don’t even mention him.” And Debbie whispered: “Do you know that he actually incorporates wrestling moves into sex?” Cherry did a poor job suppressing a laugh. “Piledriver was the worst. Followed closely by the headscissor.”

Cherry was full-out laughing now and some of the other wrestlers swiveled their heads at Cherry’s uncharacteristic joviality.

“No wonder you were limping when you tried to sneak back into the hotel room.”

“And you made me run a 5k immediately afterwards.”

They laughed again.

“Is sex better with her?” Cherry asked. Nodding towards Tiana.

Debbie shook her head vociferously. “She’s not…we’re not…I’m not…”

“I’m just saying…You’ve been staring unblinkingly at two people today. One of them is Ruth and the other is the neighbor-woman. Ruth I understand, but…” Cherry fixed her gaze on Tiana. “She stares a lot at you too.”

And when Debbie followed Cherry’s eyes, she saw Tiana staring back at her. Smiling. Followed by a small wave.

“Let’s say hello,” Cherry suggested.

“Cherry, no!”

But the fearless gym trainer was already striding over.

“Shit!” Debbie fanned her face, clearing sweat (she hoped) before following.

Cherry was already well into introductions. “…live show on Thursdays. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a second season and maybe even syndication.”

“I’ll be sure to watch. Once I unpack my television. And get cable.”

“You a wrestling fan? Or into any sports?” Cherry was evaluating Tiana in that drill sergeant way she had. Sizing-up. Checking for weaknesses and areas for growth.

“I used to watch ICW matches with my brothers back in the day. Macho Man was my favorite.”

“Oh yeah,” Cherry responded. “He popularized the elbow drop and the gutwrench suplex.”

Tiana shrugged. “I don’t know…I just remember liking his leopard-print costumes.”

“Oh my God.” Debbie inserted herself into the conversation. “Tiana, this is Cherry. Cherry this is Tiana.”

“We already did that bit,” Cherry said, grinning coyly at Debbie. “I was just about to ask Tiana if she wanted to attend Thursday’s live show.” She directed her attention to Tiana. “You’d pretty much do what you’re doing now but louder.”

“I can be loud.”

“Good.” Cherry spun on her heels. The beads in her coiled hair catching the light and drawing Tiana’s attention. “I’ll get back to it. Nice to meet you Tiana.” And she aimed an index finger at Debbie before walking away. “You and Ruth in the ring next. Zoya and Liberty Belle are the main event.”

Tiana stared after Cherry, mouth agape. “So _that’s_ a gorgeous lady of wrestler. Wow.”

“Well, we all are.” Tiana watched in rapt attention as Cherry moved confidently across the gym, barking orders, correcting positioning. “Some more than others apparently…”

Debbie pulled at the tendrils of hair that had escaped her loose bun. She hated feeling this…_Gah!_...What even was this feeling? Had she teetered prematurely into a mid-life crisis? That had to be it. She’d been feeling so insecure lately. Pouty. Petty. And always near the brink of hysteria.

“So, I get to see you in the ring next?” Tiana asked. And now her attention was back on Debbie. For some reason, that made the blonde relax.

“I’m afraid the practice bout won’t be that exciting. We’ll just review technical details. Work on movements and counter-movements.”

Tiana still looked intrigued. “I’m so glad you brought me here. This is hands-down the most exciting thing I’ve done since I moved to LA.”

“Where are you from exactly?”

“Iowa.”

“Ah. That explains the weather jacket.” Tiana laughed. “Moving to LA must have been quite the culture shock.”

“Yeah. The sun shines, like, _all_ the time here. Last week, I was introduced to this confectionary wonder called the _churro_…” Debbie’s laugh was so loud and genuine that Ruth startled near the armbar, and Cherry glanced up from her vantage point at the ring. “And now I’m sitting in a gymnasium surrounded by gorgeous wrestling women.”

But her eyes were fixed on only one woman, and Debbie preened into that hot stare. It had been a long time since someone had looked at her that way. With warmth and desire. Affection.

She’d always been considered fuckable. Casting directors had been upfront about her physical attributes.

_You have a nice rack, a decent face, and you’re blonde_. Even Sam’s pitch for her to join GLOW had been: _You’re pretty. You’ve got big boobs…_

But being called gorgeous sounded different when it came from a woman. It was sincere with no expectations, no hidden motives.

As she let Tiana’s words wash over her, Debbie was reminded of a dinner conversation she’d had with Ruth last year. Debbie had worried that the pregnancy weight had permanently rounded her hips, butt, and thighs, and she’d considered extreme dieting to lose the extra pounds. If dieting didn’t work (she wouldn’t admit this to Ruth), she’d planned to stop eating all together. Fast, purge, whatever it took to be svelte, desirable, perfect.

Ruth had vehemently denounced the proposed diet:

_Debbie, your ass **is** big. And juicy and sexy. And it’s an honor to have it in my face every time we do step-aerobics. You’re a hot fucking piece and you fucking know it! Don’t beat yourself up about it. _

It was an expletive-ridden declaration of support, and Debbie had latched on to Ruth’s words like a life preserver. They’d gorged themselves on cheeseburgers and vanilla shakes and had spent the rest of the night laughing and singing warbled lines from their favorite musicals.

_Is that why I like Tiana so much? Because she reminds me of Ruth? Because she makes me feel good about myself? Like I’m enough? _

_You look real_, Tiana had told her in the kitchen. _You’re a hot fucking piece_, Ruth had assured over dinner. 

She believed them. Even while sweating, wearing spanx, and with a few more curves than she had before.

“Debbie, you’re up!”

Cherry yelled it from across the room. Ruth was already in the ring, warming up. And the petite wrestler threw Debbie a nervous smile before throwing her body against the ropes. Pantomiming their routine.

“Give me a good show,” Tiana requested with a grin. And she flashed Debbie a thumbs-up.

“Maybe after we’ve finished practice, you and I can get churros,” Debbie offered.

And the Debbie pre- Ruth’s impassioned praise (_You’re a hot fucking piece!) _would never have suggested such a thing.

“I’m down.”

Debbie began to backpedal towards the ring. “I can’t believe you wore that jacket.”

“Give it a chance. It’ll grow on you.”

“It does look contagious.”

“Just so you know, I’m going to cheer whenever you do something that looks cool.”

“Please don’t.”

“What about a boisterous fist pump?”

“Just sit there and behave.”

A toothy smile and playful wink shouldn’t have made Debbie blush, but somehow it did. She smiled back before climbing unsteadily into the ring.

And for the first time in a long time, when Debbie stared down Ruth, prepared to fight, the predominate emotion she felt wasn’t anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Played around a bit with the timeline and Debbie and Ruth’s cheeseburger heart-to-heart from Season 3.


End file.
